


The Portrait/Cold Marble

by indaco



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: ...ish, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Experimentation, Gen, Ghosts, IDK WHAT THIS IS SORRY SHAKESPEARE, M/M, Multi, Supernatural - Freeform, tragic danish boyfriends - Freeform, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-12 04:45:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15332073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indaco/pseuds/indaco
Summary: There was always something off about Elsinore.





	The Portrait/Cold Marble

**Author's Note:**

> Uuuh...this is cut from a larger fic I'm working on.

Hidden in the shadows, a girl sits, framed in gold. Her gaze rests beyond the ornamentation around her- draped in blue and white, green eyes popping.

“That’s my aunt,” Hamlet gestures vaguely, “I have no idea why she’s even by my room, but- she was fourteen there, I think.”

“Ah,” Horatio clears his throat, “A duchess?”

“Not quite,” He hesitates outside the door, waiting for his friend to follow him, “She didn’t live to be ordained, or something.”

“I’m sorry.”

Hamlet shrugs, “I never met her, so…”

Hamlet leans against the door frame, arms crossed, watching as Horatio examines the picture.

He speaks softly, “I hear she killed herself.”

Horatio finally rips his gaze from her, matching his tone, “Jesus- really?”

“She was nuts. Totally bipolar.”

“I see.” Horatio’s criticism dies on his tongue, he speaks without thinking, “That’s hereditary, you know.’

Drenched in candlelight and unasked questions- the pair gawks at the portrait. 

_How did she do it?_

Hamlet clears his throat, “I’m gonna go get my stuff-”

“I’ll be in the garden.” Horatio interrupts.

Hamlet raises an eyebrow, “Alright…I’ll meet you there.”

Horatio never asked Hamlet for his aunt’s name.

```

Moonlight refracts through January snow, casting strange shadows on the undead gardens. Its once vibrant rose bushes sit twisted and brown, claimed by seasonal frost. The spared rest hide beneath white tarps, like veiled ladies at Church. They clutch their frozen water droplets like crystal rosaries, turned in worship to the fountain. This aquatic altar sits as the jewel of the Royal Gardens, adorned with a marble lady, _The Madonna_ of the roses.

Shivering in the cold, Horatio studies her.

 _Slosh...plop,_ during the springtime, water trips over her delicate fingers, batting lily pads and lose petals about in the pool at her feet. The water is frozen now, collecting in a sloshy pile at her feet.

Like the roses, her head is too veiled.

Horatio’s legs work without his knowledge, guiding him to her. He reaches over and up, peeking under her dirty veil. Her expression fixed, a piece of hair eternally, delicately draped across her face, her complexion ever milky-

“Isn’t she pretty?”

Horatio jumps, greeted by Hamlet’s lopsided grin.

“We use to make up stories about her,” Hamlet sets his luggage down, striding up to his friend. He removes the tarp entirely, admiring her.

“Who?”

“Laertes, Ophelia, and me- when we were little. She’s a water witch.”

Horatio gazes up at her peaceful expression, “Water witch?”

“A witch that controls water.” Hamlet says it as if it’s common knowledge.

Horatio nods to the bags, “Is that all your things?”

“Yeah, need to go say goodbye to my father, though,” Hamlet tosses the tarp to Horatio and rises on his tiptoes, pulling Horatio’s ear to his mouth.

He whispers it to him like a secret, “She comes alive when you aren’t looking.”

With that, he leaves them alone.

 _The Madonna_ and Horatio engage in a staring match. Eyes of brown versus those of pure white.

Cold marble.

Horatio loses.

She remains still.

Horatio’s eyes prance around her form, trying to trick himself into seeing something; slender arms and their nimble movement, a bubbly laugh- a puff of ice soaked breath. What spells do water witches even cast?

She remains still.

He presses the balls of his palm to his tired eyes with a sigh- the sloshing pauses. Horatio looks to her one last time.

He blinks. Eyes narrowing, then widening-

The hair, once delicately placed between her eyes, is tucked tenderly behind her right ear.

He never asked Hamlet if she had a name.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow radraconteur on tumblr!


End file.
